


turn the lights on full and go

by summerstorm



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: F/M, Id Fic, Obedience, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Porn Battle, Voice Kink, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just tell me what you want," Erica says, "in detail," and waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn the lights on full and go

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle; the prompts I used were voice, Harvard, temptation, and revenge. Title from Dragonette.

"Just tell me what you want," Erica says, "in detail," and waits.

Cameron shifts in his seat, frowning a little. It's not dignified. He's practically completely naked, and he's hard, and she's trying to teach him a lesson. She'd be hurt if anything he did came off as dignified.

She wishes he'd answer her questions, though. She wants to hear those answers; she wants to hear his voice, and she wants to hear it on her terms. There's nothing else behind this. She just loves the gravelly rumble of it, and she wants him to use it on her. Not by accident, not because he has something to say; she wants him to do it deliberately. She wants him to understand that.

He knows that's what this is about, she knows he knows that, but for some reason he still seems to find it _baffling_ , like it's somehow weird that his voice of all things turns Erica on.

He's as weird about it now as he was the first time she told him. They were in her dorm room; her roommate was out, and instead of taking advantage of the chance to fuck him on her bed, she pretended to study and he reduced the space between them until the edge of her desk was digging into her ribs. She was forced to stand then, get rid of the chair that was more of a pain than a comfort at that point. He bent her over the desk and pushed aside the crotch of her panties, teasing a fingertip at her entrance, and she said, "What are you doing," not expecting an answer at all.

He answered. He said, "I'm," and as he did it, "putting a finger inside you. And it's sliding in so easily I don't believe you have much room to complain."

Her mouth fell open, giving way to a gasp that was half offense, half surprise, product of a shiver that'd run up her spine and ended in the tips of her nipples, making them hard. She set her hands firmly on the back edge of her small desk, knuckles grazing the wall behind it.

After a while, he fell silent, and she didn't _need_ him to talk; he was really good with his fingers, and all she was conscious of was the slide of them in and out of her, the feel of his thumb at the low edges of her ass, the feel of his idle hand creeping up her stomach and playing with her breast over her shirt, and the way she was pushing back against his hand, matching his rhythm, trying to speed it up gradually, without the abruptness of asking for it.

So when she said, "Talk to me," it wasn't a conscious decision. The room was dauntingly quiet, maybe; it was only later that she realized she'd been aware for a while that she liked to hear him talk, and somehow it had seemed a good idea to bring that into her bedroom.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. He was earnest about it. She laughed, only it came out more like a strangled groan. "What gets you off?"

Their—relationship, or whatever was new enough for both of them that she knew it was a real question, that if she told him to talk about what he wanted to do to her or how wet and pliant she was for him, he would. And that would be good—it would all be good—but it felt dishonest to pretend it was dirty talk she wanted. Erica hated dishonesty. So she said, "Anything," and she said, "Just talk," and he snorted in that perplexed and completely dignified way he snorted, without any ridiculous sounds, just this puff of breath.

"Are you serious?" he asked, and she meant to say yes, but his fingers curled exactly right at that moment, right as he was saying, "Is this about—what is this about? My voice?" and the only thing that came out of her mouth was a long moan followed by a sharper, softer one as her body shook into orgasm.

Erica honestly doesn't understand what's so hard to grasp about her liking to hear his voice during sex. It's not any different from his near obsession with her thighs, and he's even managed to figure out some truly embarrassing ways to use it to his advantage. Without going very far back, just a couple of weeks ago, they attended a talk together, and he leaned into her at one point and started _whispering_ , these completely random bits of practically gossip about some of the people in the auditorium and their professional careers. It would have been interesting in itself, except his wrist was ghosting over the edge of her skirt and his fingers kept brushing her knee, and his voice was set to a much lower pitch than it usually was when he whispered, like he was making an effort to give her more of what she liked.

Her stomach tensed up, her thighs tensed up, all of her tensed up. "His mother is being investigated for fraud," and she felt her eyes go a little glassy and heat spread along her arms. A thumb tapping on her kneecap, and she pressed her legs together, more than slightly self-conscious. "She's amassed over fifty thousand million dollars in the past two months," and she swallowed. "I know you're getting off on this," and she became aware of her pulse between her legs.

"Stop," she said, and he pulled back and sat up straight in his seat, like he had nothing to do with the blush high on her cheeks and the goosebumps on the back of her neck.

She's been waiting to get back at him, so tonight, when they slipped into his suite and he pinned her to the wall, she kept her feet firmly on the floor, and put her hands on his chest, forearms extended just enough to leave a few inches of space between their bodies.

They kissed for a while, slow and gentle becoming slow and gentle and _deep_ , the way Cameron liked to start things up, and then she said, "You're not allowed to run the show anymore."

"What?" he said, frowning at the same time his mouth was crinkling up in amusement.

"You heard me."

He squared up his shoulders. "I'm not sure I heard correctly."

"I'm sure you did," Erica said sharply.

Now his legs are spread open, knees bent around the edges of the seat. He's gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles have turned white. Erica can't even tell what she likes best about the view: his shirt is ripped open, hanging low on his elbows, and she'd be lying if she said his chest isn't easy on the eyes. There's sweat on his forehead, seeping into his hairline, and she didn't let him kick his pants off, so now they're pooling around his ankles, messily bunched over his feet. Cameron has an amazing ability to look put together at all times; Erica chalks it up to his rowing experience and probably some really good genes. He also seems to have a problem keeping his hands to himself when they're out in public, so it comes in handy sometimes, like when they're dressed up for a date at some fancy restaurant and she ends up in the bathroom with her skirt carefully folded over her hips and her legs around his thighs. He holds her up without any help, leaning back against the wall himself so her hair won't get messy, and instead of looking like he just ran a marathon afterwards, he just looks slightly worked up, like he had a heated argument with someone.

Erica likes that, she really does, but seeing Cameron disheveled and knowing she caused it is a thrill, and it's even better that she's the one who's put together now, not a hair out of place, not an item of clothing removed. She wouldn't go as far as to say she's composed—she's sitting on the arm of a couch, and sometimes she grinds down on it without meaning to, and her hands are on her knees, and her back isn't straight. A small part of her itches to bend over further, balance herself precariously, a foot on the floor, a knee on the couch, her hands on the arms of the leather armchair he's sitting on and her mouth sliding down his cock. She'd probably fall down. She's graceful, but she's not that graceful. She'd probably fall down, and end up kneeling between his legs instead.

It would be good. He babbles when she sucks his dick, endearments he wouldn't use any other time mixed in with random, borderline porno bullshit that shouldn't be as sexy as he makes it sound. The last time he said, "God, baby, I'm so close—can you drink it all down, Erica, drink me in, come on," she wanted to laugh, first, and then she just wanted him to shoot down her throat already. Afterwards, it took them at least a minute to find a comfortable position for him to eat her out, and a touch of his tongue to her clit for her to come.

But she doesn't shift any closer to him, because she's looking instead, and his cock, hard and flushed and jutting out and _untouched_ , is very much a selling point to the view, too.

"How long are you planning to have me like this?" Cameron says, and she feels herself smirk a little. Maybe it's more of a smile. She doesn't care to tell.

"I don't know. How long?" she echoes, and makes a humming sound.

"Please, just," he says, like he's bargaining, only his eyes are only flicking up instead of making contact, only he's saying _please_ instead of offering up reasons, instead of trying to convince her.

"What do you want?" Erica asks, for the third time in the past fifteen minutes. "Exactly, specifically, what do you want?"

" _Anything_ ," he rushes out. He sounds like he's on the brink of collapsing.

"That's not very specific."

"I thought you didn't want me to call the shots," he teases, only the words come out tense and on edge.

"You're not," Erica says. "You wouldn't be. I'm asking you to talk. Right now. Answer my question."

"I," he begins, and bites his lip hard, chest heaving. She doesn't know if it's pride or embarrassment that requires him to steel himself for this; she doesn't care that much, but it's something else he can answer, and she can't help asking it.

"Is that pride?" He frowns, and she explains, "Taking a moment before doing what I told you to do, is that because you're too proud to just do it? Or is it embarrassment?"

"If you want to know," he says, and his hips shift off the seat a little, the muscles in his arms going even tauter as his grip on the chair becomes tighter. "I just don't _get_ it. Whatever it is about hearing me talk that turns you on, I don't get it."

"Why do you want to get it?"

"I could use it," Cameron says. "Better. If I knew what it is—I could use it."

"You have been using it," Erica accuses him, verging away from the composed act.

"Not—really?" Cameron says, frowning. "Not on purpose."

"But you knew what it was doing to me," Erica says. "That's on purpose."

"I knew because you were obvious about it. I didn't mean to—it was an accident. Every time I've noticed it's been an accident. I didn't expect you to drop everything you were doing and get yourself off when I called you Monday."

"That wasn't that—"

"I was talking about _oars_."

"Fine. Okay. And two weeks ago?"

"At the—I was just bored. I wanted to talk to someone, and your thigh started clenching into my hand. If I'd known you'd get like that, I would have waited until we were somewhere a little more private than a large room filled with people."

"Get like what?" Erica prompts, and Cameron blinks up at her.

"Like," he begins, and trails off into a groan. His cock twitches. She wants to be smug, but she's concentrating on not rubbing down against his couch and ruining everything. "Let me touch myself," he ends up groaning out.

She raises her eyebrows. "That doesn't follow."

"Let me—please," Cameron says, and it sounds more like pleading now, more like he really needs her to say yes. "I can't think about you like that and not _think_ about you like that." He gives her this look, this look that's supposed to convey _think_ doesn't exactly mean think in that sentence.

"Okay," she says, "okay. You can touch," and his hand's already on his dick before she's even done saying, "but you can't come. Not yet."

His mouth is hanging open already, adjusting to her permission, and he gasps out a laugh when he hears the rest of it.

"You can also not touch yourself," Erica says. "You seemed to be doing well with that and not coming. You can keep it up."

Cameron laughs again, "Fine," and he gives his cock a rough jerk that turns into another and another and stops just before he starts jerking off properly. His hand settles on his thigh for a second, squeezes, and goes back to the armrest. His cock looks _needy_ —now she's just seeing things—and his balls seem so heavy and she is not, she is not getting down on her knees and sucking him off. She's not.

"You still can't—"

"I know," Cameron interrupts. "Do you have any idea what it's like to talk to you? I'm _constantly_ wondering if you're listening to me or just _hearing_ me and thinking up an excuse to drag me out so I'll go down on you."

"I can multitask," she says, and oh, great, now she's feeling off center.

"And if you duck out on your own, I'll be wondering if it was some excuse to go touch yourself," he goes on, and then registers what she said. "You can multi— Great, that'll really clear things up."

Screw it, she doesn't have that much self-control. She falls onto her knees and rests her hands on his thighs; they're as far apart as they'll go, and she strokes them for a second before leaning over his cock, giving it a quick lick from base to tip and letting the anticipation rush over her.

"Oh, God," he says, "can I—"

She doesn't know what he's asking, so she rattles off everything she can think of, "You can grab my head, you can pull my hair, you can come whenever you want," and she's not even done talking when the first string of come hits her cheek. Her lids shut down unconsciously, but her mouth stays open, and she can hear him groan and feel his thighs shudder under her hands as he shoots all over her face, her neck, her _lips_. She ducks her tongue out to clean them and hears him groan again, and the armchair screech, and she opens her eyes.

"You need to go down on me," she says, taking off her panties, "right now," and he nods swiftly and slides off the chair, his head resting on the seat at just the perfect angle for her to drag up her knees and sit on his face.

When his fingers touch her, he says, "Jesus, you're dripping."

She bites back a moan. It's—it's not dirty talk that does it for her, but hearing that in his _voice_ is really not easy to handle. At all. "I'm not," she says automatically. "Shut up."

"I thought you liked it when I—"

"Shut up," she says more firmly, and he presses his mouth to her.

She glances at the clock just once, and comes three times in twenty minutes. He doesn't say another word the whole time.


End file.
